Unto my grave, had not a stronger hand
Reliev'd my sorrows. Go, and weep as I did,
And be unpitied, for here I profess
An everlasting hate to all thy name.
Mist. Mer. Will you so, sir, how say you by that? Come, Mick, let him keep his wind to cool his pottage; we'll go to thy nurse's, Mick, she knits silk stockings, boy; and we'll knit too, boy, and be beholding to none of them all.
[Exeunt Michael and Mother.
Enter a Boy with a letter.
Boy. Sir, I take it you are the master of this house.
Merch. How then, boy?
Boy. Then to yourself, sir, comes this letter.